


Times of Bedlam

by lciel



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Humor, M/M, Madness, Nassau, Reunion, Thomas lives, bedlam - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-10 16:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7852780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lciel/pseuds/lciel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It had been bedlam and the longer he left the mad house behind, the surer he became it would be bedlam all the way through until his death, which at that moment appeared to be sooner rather than later." Follow Thomas and the voices in his head on his journey to reclaim his James, his mind and his freedom, not necessarily in that order. (rating may change)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bedlam

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a current work in progress. Feedback and ideas are welcome. It's un-beated for want of a beta reader. Let me know if this turns out to be a problem.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on unexpected releases and the problem of survival

# Bedlam

 

_Bedlam_. Suggested Synonyms (MS Word): Mayhem, Chaos, Pandemonium, Confusion, Anarchy, Disorder, Disarray, Turmoil, Commotion, Uproar.

 

The most immediate and salient problem of being Just Thomas was - _surviving_. Being Lord Hamilton had come with a selection of assets that made survival if not certain, then at least likely: at dinner parties as much as in Bethlem Royal Hospital. Becoming Just Thomas upon his release from both title and hospital corresponded somewhat to the saying “from the frying pan into the fire”, albeit it would have been more accurate to say “from the cold inside into the freezing outside”. It had been bedlam and the longer he left the mad house behind, the surer he became it would be bedlam all the way through until his death, which at that moment appeared to be sooner rather than later. To give the misery of the situation some more flavour it could be said that Thomas found himself on the doorsteps outside the Melancholia and the Raving Madness, sound neither in body nor mind, and expelled into a snowstorm that coated all London in thick and fluffy whiteness and turned the extremities blue within minutes. The clothes on his back provided woefully inadequate protection against the weather, which did not surprise him per se, but stunned him insofar as that he had not quite anticipated being Just Thomas with nothing but these clothes on his back. It occurred to him then that the coincidence of the snowstorm and his timely release were likely the latest attempt of his father to be rid of him even more permanently than disownment would achieve. Another part of his mind – he chose to call it reason for a lack of a better term - injected that Lord Alfred Hamilton had recently passed away under laudably violent circumstances, and that he had quite a party about it in his cell – hence the Earl’s influence was to be ruled out. Then he contemplated that his father might very well have invoked the storm from hell. He could not quite come to a conclusion about the likelihood of that explanation. In any case the cell was gone now, along with the title, estate and anything else uncles and cousins of multiple degrees had snatched up with the erstwhile heir fallen from grace. Equally gone was the cell’s meagre and entirely insufficient warmth, and what being Just Thomas-with-the-clothes-on-his-back meant now was decidedly worse.

Against the odds his misery found its end not in frozen death, but at the hearth of a mission of good Christian faith. The Black Friar’s public house had no sympathy for insolvent patrons, but the cook never complained about a few helping hands in peeling potatoes if said hands required no money and were happy with keeping warm by the hearth with a cup of soup in their bellies. How Thomas had ever made it there he did not properly remember, but it involved getting lost in the streets and a fellow named Socks who kept talking to him all through the peeling. Socks did not mind that Thomas did not seem to know him, and instead set to advance his peeling skills, which had been pretty non-existent to that date, but evolved fast with the promise of staying by the hearth just a little while longer. As night fell upon London and all potatoes had shed their skin, it was Socks that kept Thomas warm that night, huddled together in that kitchen until the matron kicked them out before sunrise with a curse and a loaf of bread. The latter was shared quietly during the walk to Wapping, were the docks promised income and, at least for the lucky workers, enough to live the day. Being Thomas did not entail luck in any straight ways – no truly, it never did – but somehow Socks and he came by some income anyhow. It may have had involved carrying the baggage from a cart towards the ships, and then quickly around the corner of a warehouse, before the owner became aware of the transport. The suitcase on the move revealed within it – by God’s grace and all the saints – a soft blue coat of fine warm wool that Socks eyed critically and with a sigh passed to Thomas, whose fingers were too numb to button it, and whose clattering teeth had become “a menace in the ears of Jesus the Lord and all his sheep, so help me”. Socks helped himself to the remains of the baggage, and bade Thomas to wait outside Taylor’s Pawnshop, from which he emerged soon after, a suitcase poorer and a small bag of coin richer. One share he generously kept for Thomas, who was yet lacking his own purse.

“So, here we are now”, Socks gave Thomas a brotherly pat on the shoulder, “and what are your plans from here?”

Thomas thought long and hard, since he had no plans to speak of, no perspective really. But he had a dream, which he cautiously shared with his new friend Socks.

“Nassau?” his new friend furrowed his brow, “Whereabouts would that be? – Overseas? Are you quite certain?” Well, it turned out Thomas had a plan after all, though its details were quite undefined yet. But having spoken a goal out loud made it easier to consider the milestones necessary for such a journey to reach its end. The matter of the sea was to be considered, so clearly naval passage was of some import. A ship of some kind that would make for the New World, for the old world had so very much disappointed in all regards. Ships brought people across oceans, for either paid passage – which appeared no option – or indenture. Socks knew nothing about ships, and had what he called “a sane and heathy respect of the water”, which meant he limited his exposure to the odd bath and left it at that. But he was well familiar with the docks and their opportunities, so he brought Thomas along to the jetties to wait for him to come back from talks with the captains.

Another matter to consider when it came to ships and being Just Thomas was getting close enough to a captain to ask such questions. The blue coat was fine enough, but the loose trousers and scuffed shoes made for an eccentric rather than established appearance and most crews offered physical repercussions rather than welcomes to board. A group of sailors by a small vessel proved to be of a talking mood. As Thomas inquired after the captain, one of them raised his hat and introduced himself as The Captain, surrounded by the laughter of his peers. Thomas was not discouraged. He explained his need for passage to Nassau, and the scarcity of coin. As The Captain returned inquiry to Thomas experience of sailing, the amiable discussion took a downturn, which again Thomas braved with a mild smile that had appeased even the most rigorous and dutiful asylum guard. Indenture was not considered, since the labourer-to-be-traded appeared to the negotiating party in power as unlikely to survive the voyage in his current condition. A price for passage in coin was offered that corresponded in feasibility to the state of existence of Thomas purse (none). In good humour it was lamented that Thomas was not any prettier, or he could have paid for passage in perpetual services to the crew of another kind. Thomas politely declined the idea with regard to being a doubly-married man, both in law and soul. His rejection was taken gracefully, and he left the jetties no step closer to achieving his goal than in the morning. However, he thought to himself, approaching Socks with a wry smile, the threat of the cold and survival was dispelled for the moment, and were there was life, there was hope: Even in bedlam.


	2. Commotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on how to make a living on lunacy and rhetoric

# Commotion

 

_Historical notes: The war against France is the Nine Years War. “Idiot” is an old word for someone we would nowadays call mentally disabled._

In the months past his release Thomas’ acquaintance with Mr. Socks had proven quite profitable, and indeed, life-saving. Thomas past habits and capabilities turned out rather unsuited to braving existence in the gutters of Wapping and Whitechapel: even the most well intended lectures on rhetoric failed to appeal to the local dialects, and potential customers were as illiterate to the classics as he was to their proficiency of getting by on a shoestring. Mr. Socks had at some point introduced him to his roommates at the board house, Mr. Doors and Arnold. Mr. Doors was a veteran, Mondays till Wednesdays from the war of succession, and Thursdays to Saturdays from the war against France. He had lost a leg and his optimism in many battles, but retained good Christian faith of never working on Sundays, when his unshaken English patriotism took him to the pub. Arnold was a mild-mannered idiot, who occasionally helped with some heavy lifting at the pawnshop. His sister worked for Mr. Taylor as well, in what capacity Arnold did not quite say. From his vague description of a profession carried out in backrooms Thomas suspected accountancy.

It came thus to be that Thomas found employment with Mr. Socks and Mr. Doors venture. Mr. Doors was a beggar by profession. The loss of his leg provided a certain asset, he explained to Thomas, since a beggar’s art rested in arousing pity from the passers-by. The more pity one could evoke, the better for business. An impairment of some sort and an honourable tale of how it was attained were hence of tremendous importance. So every day but Sunday Mr. Socks and Arnold would carry Mr. Doors to a well-populated corner of London, and Mr. Doors would raise his voice above the noise of traffic and recount his heroic fate in the war, stump well in sight. After having listened to him for several weeks Thomas surmised that Mr. Doors had substantial narrative talent in developing his protagonist and plot. He resolved to bring the biography to paper if he could ever find some, including ink and quill. Where Mr. Doors provided chiefly the entertainment to their working arrangement, Mr. Socks provided the main source of income. His dexterity was singular in relieving bystanders to Mr. Doors’ tales of their unattended valuables. Such benevolent donations where then exchanged with Mr. Taylor at a _mutually not quite satisfying_ rate (as Mr. Socks phrased it), and shared at the ratio of 2-2-1-1 between the four, in respect of Mr. Socks and Mr. Doors seniority in the venture compared to Thomas, and Arnold’s charitable soul and modest understanding of mathematics.

Although they circulated their show carefully across London, the constables got wind of it eventually, which initially provided Thomas with the honourable task of surveying the street for the approach of law and order. The catchiness of Mr. Doors’ recitations, however, increasingly appeared as a detriment to their safety, and Thomas' task became somewhat more stressful. Mr. Doors turned most pessimistic about the ongoing viability of the business model. Especially his own immobility caused concern in the event of a necessarily swift departure. Amendments were discussed: Mr. Doors would make a fine enough look-out, easily able to give warning with his uncanny ability to yell imaginative profanities. But whereas Arnold would have met requirements of pitifulness, he got nervous speaking to anyone but himself and occasionally his sister, and generally had trouble to remember the war memories. Thomas, however, demonstrably had both the skills of rhetoric as well as the pitiful qualities of lunacy. And in that moment as they sat together in their crumbling lodgings, woefully aware of the upcoming rent, it came to be that Captain Barmy was born: a veteran who had hit his head once too often when saving his comrades in many wars.

 

~*~

It was a Friday morning, and consequently the Nine Years War had been due, and Thomas had regaled the cajoling crowd with the newest adventure of Captain Barmy, when the loudest profanities were shouted from the market square ahead. Thomas glanced up from his audience, using the vantage point of the box he was standing on, to see a small troop of gendarmes approaching. Mr. Socks was already slinking away from the scene, but Arnold had not quite realised the signal. Thomas hesitated only for a second, and then broke off his performance to take off as fast as his feet would carry him. He knew the streets well, and the back alleys even better, or at least he thought so when he made it to the pawnshop three hours later, well rid of any tail. As he extended his hand, the door was thrown open and two pairs of strong hands dragged at his clothes. It was by sheer instinct that he threw his whole weight against them, and tore lose only to fall back on his bum. Thereby his capture was delayed by a few seconds. Years’ worth experience of been a captive taught him that madness was not only a useful tool in begging. As he was presented to the judge a week later, he smiled benignly and told the man in his most earnest voice that his name was Captain Samuel Barmy. The judge was not amused. Thomas considered in the twelve hours of wait in an overcrowded cell that his sense for adequate politics was as off as ever, when he was released a second time within one year without being given an explanation. As he stepped out of jail, he expected a snowstorm, but instead a carriage was waiting for him.


	3. Confusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos. Updates might be erratic, but this story is intended to have approximately 11 chapters.

# Confusion

Just-Thomas with his personal affects restored to his person, notably the woolly blue coat, had recently renewed his distrust in good fortune. Hence, he disregarded the presence of the carriage with the utmost indifference and slunk into a side-street to take him away from the prison. The carriage followed. He quickened his pace, but the four horses won the race anyhow. The door opened next to him, and even Captain Barmy had to concede that closing one’s eyes made others disappear, but not oneself. The door remained open. Waiting it out ran away as a solution. He sighed. The door sighed back, then an unwigged head appeared in the opening.

“Mr. Hamilton, if I may introduce myself. My name is Woodes Rogers, and I am a great admirer of your work. If you would be so kind as to join me for afternoon tea?”

A gentleman should not reject a kindly phrased invitation to tea, especially not when he was starving. The scones proved to be great conversationalists, and even Mr. Rogers was reasonably tasty. Thomas had not expected Captain Barmy’s tales to reach from the street to the established classes. The ensuing conversation substantiated this assertion. Rogers pretended amusement at his explorations, but ultimately tried to turn the conversation towards an… older project.

“You were the father of the original proposal of a pardon to end piracy in Nassau”, Rogers declared with an air of admiration that convinced Thomas of a shared lunacy between them. Perhaps this partnership was not as unfeasible as it first sounded.

“Fathers, plural”, a voice supplied that he realised too late had come out loud. Rogers inquired about the other father. Thomas tried to remember, and for a moment he thought of red hair and a lot of freckles in the most impossible places. But somehow his mind did not quite go there, and took a sharp curve backwards. He felt slightly dizzy from it. He smiled benignly and hoped that the other would let his lack of an answer pass for a momentary bout of madness.

When later he left the restaurant, swathed in the folds of his good coat, provided with superior lodgings in the form of an invitation to a respectable guesthouse in the West End, and a bag full of coin, the memory of those freckles kept nagging at his mind. Nagging… was bad. His mind was a rather frayed and precariously worn fabric, quite susceptible to tears and rips that could misbalance the whole weave. Nagging thoughts had the habit of opening holes that would then take great caution and a good deal of imagination to mend. He’d rather keep what order he had up there, and the freckles proved to be a massive danger to that construction. So he trotted along the pavement, and his feet took him not into the West End, but back to the board house in Whitechapel. He realised too late that the rent for the month had not been paid, and the room given to another quartet of scoundrels. It had started to rain again, at least in his head, as his feet took him south to the river and up to the docks. He gazed at the ships again, as they lay swooning at the jetties. A naval vessel traversed his line of sight, bound for Greenwich no doubt. He thought about the Admiralty, the white stone, long park views, a wry and joyful smile on a lush mouth among freckles-

_James laughed, his green eyes crinkling and sparking in the sunlight, pale skin luminous amongst the blue skies. The tricorn sat loftily on his copper locks, just slightly windswept and curling around his face. A white cravat was tucked neatly between the blues of his uniform. Officers were milling about, several tall ships in sight as they took soldiers and sailors into the Spanish war. James recounted their names, guns, whatnot. Thomas did not listen, he just watched James’ mouth moving, his sparkling animate eyes, and again that mouth he so longed to k-_

To kiss him. Just-Thomas stood in the rain, two fingertips gently resting against his lips. The freckled man – James – he reminded himself. He wondered where he had gone. James was _before_ , and memories from before were kept in a dangerous place. _There be monsters_ , his caution gingerly supplied. _Indeed_ , reason stated. But all his inner voiced were turned on heart, who stood shivering beneath their stares. For heart, as it was prone to, already knew things that the others were steadfastly suppressing. Yes, heart had always been a clever little bugger, but one without any sense of self-preservation, as the others would comment. By the time they were done complaining, however, heart had already moved their feet towards the jetties in search of a ferry to Greenwich.

~*~

Greenwich met expectations in terms of general layout. He politely inquired after James – “Which James, Mister, we have a whole bunch of them.” – No, he thought. Even thinking of one gave him the shivers. A whole bunch would be entirely overwhelming. (Though the voice in his head that was perpetually bathing in the gutter contemplated the image… No, decency intervened. Possibly reason and self-preservation, too, just to underline their existence. Discipline failed to be heard –as always.) From the recesses of memory he dredged up the name “McGraw” and the… navy person who had asked him after his business told him to wait and ambled off towards some book. A register. He remembered not being fond of registers, they were causal to all kinds of treatments, routines and the ill fortune of not being overlooked. He had left Greenwich for the corridor that led to his cell at Bedlam, when the voice of the navy man brought him back to the present:

“Sir?”

“Yes?” he eyed the man dazedly.

“James McGraw, formerly lieutenant of her majesties navy, was dishonourably discharged in 1708. I am afraid you will not find him here.”

“Oh”, he frowned. Life had a _tendency_ to be unnecessarily complicated. “Would you know where he went to?”

The navy man startled. “No, sir. I really do not. But if memory serves correctly, Lieutenant McGraw was dismissed over the Hamilton affair, when he made off with the Lord’s wife-“

Thomas could not quite say what made the navy man shut his mouth, but somehow his jaws hurt just a little bit when he left the building after a brief farewell. It took some gnashing to unlock his teeth. A brief moment of clarity told him there most certainly had been an affair, and possibly a wife (“Miranda”, heart provided faithfully, and conscience trembled, sadness flared-) and freckles… had been dishonourably discharged. It appeared the navy had no sense about the perfect honourability of those particular freckles! In a mood, and not entirely sure how to resolve it, Thomas spend the next day in the kitchen of the Black Friar’s pub, vigorously peeling potatoes in an attempt to make sense of his feelings. Clearly, he needed a plan, and since he had none whatsoever, it appeared prudent to acquire one from someone who had plans. It was for this simple fact that on the next day he trudged back to the West End to find Woodes Rogers. (And that had nothing to do with a warm bed in a guest bedroom, independence insisted. Self-preservation wisely said nothing.)


	4. Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A journey and a new acquaintance for Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is the new chapter. by now the general outline of the story stands and I have a few more chapters to write. thank you all very much for the kudos, and feedback is warmly welcome!

# Chaos

There was no logical explanation how Thomas had made it aboard the ship. But sometimes the smallest of incidents triggered a ravine, and in hindsight no one could ever quite make out the proper causation. All he knew was that after a very long time of unpleasant impressions, life had taken a surprising upturn. He suspected it would not last. Reason lay in his ears about the conclusion-that-must-not-be-denied that Woodes Rogers had some ulterior motive for taking him to Nassau. Optimism, recently resurrected and still all tatter-skinned and with earth and splinters under her fingernails, had protested vehemently that selfless acts were possible (scorn spat at that). Heart had supported optimism. But both had eventually yielded to the superiority of reason, self-preservation, and scorn, who insisted upon pursuing the question.

Hence Thomas had barely escaped the less-than-watchful gaze of Rogers’ officers as he stealthily crept out of the main cabin. Once he had made it to the relative safety and inconspicuousness of the quarterdeck, he stuck his nose into the sea wind and contemplated the intelligence gathered. It appeared that Mr. Woodes Rogers had his intents upon creating a profitable Nassau, with leave and lease given by the Lords Proprietors. A company had been drawn up and the grand strategy to seize the islands involved a massive pardon. Thomas was half-tempted to warn the poor fellow that such endeavours ended badly, especially where pardons were concerned. On the other hand Thomas had heard enough to know that Mr. Rogers’ father had passed away some time ago, and he supposed that reduced the risk. He would furthermore have advised the good man to be discrete about his lovers, but word about Miss Guthrie was already spreading like colds in winter, and Thomas frankly did not care much about the fate of Woodes Rogers. On his expedition to the main cabin he had snooped into Rogers’ private diary and found his style of prose lacking. The idea, confessed to the paper, to use Thomas to placate a local pirate captain by the name of Flint was illogical to boot. Rogers’ lack of care with punctuation and capital letters offended the senses. The ink was of a particularly ugly shade of black, too.

In deep contemplation, he did not hear a visitor approach. Thomas' voyage on the HMS Milford had been remarkably isolated for a ship with very limited space and a substantial number of men aboard. His isolation in that moment, however, was broken not by men, but Miss Guthrie, who placed herself beside him to join his gaze upon the sea.

“I did not anticipate to ever meet you, Mr. Hamilton.” She smiled coyly, but years of marriage to Miranda had taught him better than to trust that look.

“Miss Guthrie, I can say I never expected to meet you either, but it has been a pleasant experience so far.” He smiled blandly at her. She was not fooled either. He wondered whether she knew about his detour to the main cabin. (Reason injected that his was impossible, she always spent her mornings with Rogers, but never in his cabin.)

“Because you never heard of me. I, however, have heard of you and your plans for Nassau, the idea of using pardons.” She glanced at him sideways. He understood her posture to compel him to inquire further. Unfortunately Miss Guthrie had underestimated how devotedly Bedlam cropped the blossoms of curiosity.

“And who has been lauding my efforts so loudly, in the face of their rather substantial failure?” Possibly the gardeners of Bedlam had missed a bud.

Eleanor’s smile widened into something rather devious, yet her eyes remained strangely empathetic underneath the mirth. “Why, Mr. Hamilton, Captain Flint told me, during a long starry night, a cup of rum, and a good deal of plotting about just that future.” Thomas was rather puzzled at that. “Before my capture by Captain Hornigold he and Mrs. Barlow set sail for Charlestown to negotiate such an offer.”

“Then something about his negotiations must have gone rather awry, if the smoking ruins of the town and his increasing bounty are anything to go by.” He tipped his head to the side and regarded her back.

She winced and tightened her mouth. “Rather so”, she admitted after a while. They looked at the sea again. The sun set in all the glory of her reds and golds that Thomas had admired so in the first week of their travels. He was about to make his excuses and retire to his hammock, when her hand on his wrist held him back. He flinched slightly, before reason reminded him they were safe.

“Before we arrive in Nassau, you must know something very important”, she said under her breath, and some of the mirth returned. She pulled him closer, and intrigued despite himself, he let her.

“What is it, then?”

She breathed in deep, then whispered into his ear.

He did not follow as hell broke loose between his ears. A chorus of voices rose in his head singing denial, and the opera drowned out any of the reliable voices. The clamour increased until a sharp tug on his wrist brought him back on deck. Her eyes were inches from his face: “Mr. Hamilton - Thomas!” He gazed into her eyes, willing wildly for a lie, a truth, any sign that would end his uncertainty, would soothe his raw hope.

“James will come back – to Nassau”, she hissed and his heart plummeted. James, his mind whispered in unison – and then fell into chaos: _will come back_ , reason stuttered and self-preservation whispered. Idealism was speechless and heart… heart had a failure. It seized, stumbled, and was caught on his knees, his stomach heaving and the world wobbling in and out of focus. He did not much perceive how they carried him to the doctor, nor the blanket that she draped over his body as she sat with him.

 _James will come back_ , his feet tickled, his legs tingled, his hands shivered, the hairs on his arms sung, his head spun, his throat closed, his chest ached, his guts were in a complete tangle and even his behind clenched. Belatedly, and possibly much later, he touched his fingertips to his cheeks to find them wet.

Above him, Eleanor smiled wanly and, very - very - cautiously, he smiled back at her. Then he let oblivion drag him under.


	5. Anarchy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little glance at what goes on in Nassau

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the kudos! I hope you enjoy the new chapter. 
> 
> There might be a delay in the next posts, as I am moving this week and will start a new job. But the next chapter WILL come.

# Anarchy

Nassau did not take kindly to law and order. One might say it had a difficult history with the concepts. Consequently the inhabitants of New Providence Island had developed a preference to place their trust in political uncertainty, which at the expense of predictability conjured a sense of opportunity that gave birth to a social norm of opportunism. After all, what never stayed steady never steadily stayed bad, and as the wheel of fortune went round one could take advantage of that. The notion served well enough in practice for the population of lesser means, lands, and morals. As far as the landowners and farmers were concerned, a little more predictability might have been nice. But at the end of the day everyone had gotten used to the anarchy, and if people dislike something, it is an unrequested prompt to change their habits.

A collective pardon, as it was offered on the beach these days and dispensed in taverns, had at first glance provided an opportunity to dispense with the risk of fighting and spend the days shifting the fates and opportunities on the island. But as the navy’s and Hornigold’s departure from the island to hunt the pirates dragged on long, longer and _too_ long, the names of Edward Teach, James Flint and Long John Silver became whispered more often, by the crews, the whores, the soldiers, and that sense of opportunism sniffed the changing winds and slowly adjusted course. Where tales of black spots, and famous pirate captains of the golden days, a bunch of drunken men and women sat together, all kinds of ideas were spun, and their threads, both solid and shifty, diffuse or bold, wove their way into the minds of the people.

Billy leaned back against the tavern wall, ensconced in his spot by the door where he saw the comings and goings, but the patrons’ attention tended to miss him as they made their way towards the bar. Ben sat huddled and wide-eyed next to him, as they watched the scene unfold as a pamphlet was read to the audience, not all of whom were literate enough to make sense of it themselves.

“Good people of Nassau”, the orator pronounced with a deep bow, “good fortune was promised to you upon the arrival of the English, good commerce, law and order to bring us justice. And justice was brought to Charles Vane, who hung by his neck for the crimes of piracy, for which all others of us, crew or captain, were so mercifully pardoned. Is it not good fortune and justice indeed, if we all, good men all born equal in the image of God and English law, are shown mercy by our good King George?” The speaker paused, looking around the room. “I wonder, though, how the King’s will and the King’s pardon were administered so wisely and swiftly to bring justice to Charles Vane, who unlike all of us was no good subject to his King when he killed Richard Guthrie. Was it not the wisdom of our new governor that made this sure and just incision to divide from us repentant and good people the sinner Charles Vane, who committed crimes so terrible that even King and God could not forgive them in their mercy? Our good governor, who - senseless in his illness - still made that call himself? Was it not he who saw the deed fulfilled, watched as the sentence was carried out?”

A murmuring went through the room, and Billy picked up the name _Guthrie_. He smiled into his cup.

At the bar, the reading went on: “What crime did Charles Vane commit that was so terrible that ours would pale against it? For are we not good subject to our new King, who has driven corruption, cruelty, and personal vengeance from our streets and replaced it with justice, given by a jury of conscientious people to speak in the name of law, public and for all the world to see? Is it not this great order of civilisation that protects us from such abuse, so that no man – or woman- would stand above the law?”

From the corner of his eye Billy saw Elaine peek her head into the tavern. She motioned him urgently and he followed her out.

“What is it?” he asked her, suspicious of her approaching him publicly. It went against the rules they had set to remain inconspicuous.

“Max wants to talk to you”, Elaine whispered fearfully.

~*~

She had thought long and hard whether to intervene or not. She did not like to pull the strings more than necessary, for no one appreciated a puppet master and she was not Eleanor. It was a pity that she still cared about the woman, who had betrayed her, who put her ambition above love, and who had fallen into the governor’s bed all too easily. 

No, she did not like to intervene, but intervention was clearly required to the growing unrest on Nassau’s streets. She knew that street, and its whispers, its mind, and the work of Billy Bones had not gone unnoticed by her many informants. She had to concede that he played his cards well for an amateur. She had bade her time and watched the tides change, calculated her options well – and she had come to the unavoidable conclusion that her investment in Nassau was best protected by the English – little that she liked them. The war that Teach and Flint were declaring on England, hence, posed a rather substantial inconvenience, but unlike foolish men around her, she did not believe in any chance of defeating England by force alone. There was money here, and English investors did not sit idly - neither did she. And then she had heard of the odd gentleman in the mansion, from dear Eleanor, who so wished to be friends again. Eleanor, who had returned so meek in demeanour she had the English fooled. But not Max, never again.

So this night, Billy Bones had visited her in the inn on her request. She had explained to him the foolishness of the Captains’ endeavour. But it was with worry she thought back on his words: “They do not fight to win, madam, they fight to fight.”

She wished it was not so. She would have liked to support them if a chance of a free Nassau was possible, but now they forced her to choose. From behind the shuttered doors of the balcony she watched as a group of red uniformed men dragged Elaine and Mr. Featherstone towards the fort. And she knew, on the road inlands, Billy Bones was riding for his life, a horse from her stable, carrying her message with him.


	6. Disorder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we look at one evening from the perspectives of three men.

# Disorder

He had dreamed for a long time of seeing Nassau. The image of it had been beautiful, how else could it be, and when they had sailed past the outer Caribbean islands, the picture had become a mosaic of all the wondrous new trees, villages, and people that Thomas discovered through the spyglass. He had been advised to stay aboard the HMS Milford, and hence the stench of the crew, the salt, the creaking of the ropes remained his cage when the island beckoned him from such close distance.

But if Thomas had learned one thing in the last years, it was compliance, it was patience, it was not causing attention. So he smiled benignly and waited. Eventually the long awaited day had come when they reached Nassau bay, and half-awed, half-weary he observed with the others how the plan to take the beach unfolded. It worked, the pardons were distributed with full hands, and yet the feeling of doing good did not come, no sense of righteousness arose within him. When the situation was under control, he was moved to a remote wing of the old governor’s house. It was in bad repair, having been used as a casino of sorts, but in one of the sitting rooms he found a small but decent collection of books books nobody but him seemed keen to peruse. It was in an armchair in that very room that Eleanor found him late one afternoon.

“I see you have found a source of entertainment”, she said over his shoulder and glanced at the page of Cervantes, “In pursuit of chivalry, honour, and windmills, Mr. Hamilton?”

He smiled at her: “My Dulcinea only, as ever. But yes, I enjoy the library, and Mr. Rackham has good taste.” Eleanor snorted and made a face in disagreement, but Thomas attention was taken over by the view from the window. The day had grown late in the absence of his mind, and the golden light of the evening fell through the open shutters, baring a beautiful sight of the sparking bay.

“There is no word of the Walrus, is there?” he asked delicately, and Eleanor confirmed. But no news were surely good news, with all kinds of pirate crews slipping from the bay…and was that fire-ship not spectacular! A new voice that Thomas had not yet named, which sounded suspiciously like reason without any of its assertiveness, frowned and shushed his excited self. People had gotten hurt there, and really it should not be a cause for celebration. He considered naming the newcomer _seriousness_. What a dreadful thing to possess… being serious sucked all the joy from the world, and thoughts turned dark indeed if one was determined to take the world serious. He endeavoured to foster a reliable sense of humour, but within all the beauty of the evening and the good book and a witty companion in the delightful and devious blonde at his side, a raw yearning for a life lost tore through him and squeezed at his heart. As his face fell, Eleanor seemed to take notice, for she knelt by him and took his hand. No word had come since Commodore Chamberlain at taken the fleet to battle.

“When I told you the truth, I wished to give you comfort, something to look forward to. “ She smiled bitterly. “I simply never anticipated that circumstances here would be so much changed.”

“There is hope yet…” He saw Miranda instead of Eleanor, in the same position, the same bitter smile that belied her concord to his optimism. Oh beautiful Miranda, flower of his life, who was dead and gone, slipped past him only by months, in a desperate attempt to secure a pardon that was already in the making in London. He wondered if in that moment she died he had been sitting on a street corner spinning lies about a Captain, being no-one, remembering no-one. Had he betrayed her, then? Should be blame himself for her fate, his-his _impertinence – indulgence - self-righteousness_ , oh had he not heard this sermon too often, had damned himself into its chains, its thorns and wicked blades? Thomas wondered if not some recess of his mind took its own perverse pleasure at self-castigation at every chance he got, a place in his mind where the darkness of his childhood home, of his father’s cold love, and even colder anger, the darkness of his cell had leaked into his head and twisted the fabric of his soul long enough to take hold and breed anew. A place where he had turned the ruthlessness of the world onto himself, and from which nothing but ruthlessness was born, where there was no mercy, no forgiveness. It was a place he would reject, fight, oppose with every breath, every thought. And if madness was his last shield to fend of dysphoria, well, he _was_ a certified lunatic.

His mind calmed, and he wondered when Captain Barmy had become the guardian of his inner oceans. “Incidentally”, he opened his eyes to Eleanor, “did I tell you about my exploits in the – which day is it – French war?”

~*~

A man stood aboard his ship, gazing at the horizon where the northern beaches of New Providence Island were but a hue against the darkening skies. Had he distained the place before, now his feelings had turned into absolute loathing. The old Nassau, the free Nassau, was gone, diminished in her compliance, a biddable whore to the next best suitor, weak, craven - pathetic. And now a new lion had taken presidency over her sheep, sheep who had thought they were wolves and had been in for a rude awakening. Yet he wondered whether it was the new lion, or an old lioness, who had brought the spineless crowd to her feet.

If she was old, he was older, and perhaps with age and the comforts of marriage, he had become docile. Perhaps it was impending death that left him soft for a son, now dead, and that left him – bereft – with nothing to lose. Time was about to show that the old lion had not become toothless, and she would feel each single tooth before he was done with her.

~*~

The horse had fallen into a trot long hours ago, foaming at the mouth and heaving under the rider, who had relentlessly driven animal and man to speed through the night. He had risked his neck in the dark, following the road to the northern side of the island, where a launch was hidden that would take him to the Walrus hiding just beyond the horizon.

He slowed the horse as he reached the sea, and left her free to run back home. Then he climbed down the rocks to the shoreline as silently as possible, and listening. It was utterly silent. Billy hoped that Ben had made it out, but even if his crewmate had evaded the redcoats, he would not have made it north as quickly or determinedly, and Billy did not dare wait for him. So instead he made the boat loose and shoved her into the water. Not quite certain about the Walrus’ location, he rowed out onto the calm sea. The waves were black under the starry skies, but the moon full and eventually he spied an even blacker shape. Only up close he could make out the light of a small lantern. As the launch came closer, more lights were lit and someone called “Who’s there?” before De Groot’s face came into view.

Billy hauled himself aboard and the launch was raised. He left the task in the hands of the crew, hurrying towards the captain’s cabin. He knocked hard once, and waited. From behind the door he heard the thud of the peg-leg, then Silver threw open the door. Billy stepped in.

“Captain?” But the cabin seemed empty. He turned on Silver: “Where’s Flint?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:
> 
> The Cervantes book is of course Don Quixote, and Dulcinea is his youth’s sweetheart, whom he constructs as his princess and who he never meets again in the book. (see Wikipedia summary)
> 
> “My son is impertinent. My son is indulged. My son is self-righteous.” Alfred Hamilton in S2E4


	7. Turmoil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all kinds of captains make a reappearance...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: thanks first for all the kudos and comments! and please let me know how you like where this is going... muhahahaha...
> 
> *cough* 
> 
> ok, the plot is plotted out more or less, and the story will have 11 chapters. I intend to leave an opening for a sequel, but that is no promise. also, because I have a new job updates might get quite sporadic. now - enjoy!

# Turmoil

“Where’s Flint?” Billy asked the one-legged man sitting behind the captain’s desk aboard the Walrus. Silver sat in it like he owned the chair, legs easily spread, reclining and arms easily folded over his lap. There was no trace of Flint’s famous book collection or charts anywhere in the cabin. Whereas little else in the room had changed, Billy thought it felt like a completely different place.

“Near Harbour Island, aboard the man’o’war, arguing with Blackbeard. “ Silver replied smoothly, “As for the captain of the Walrus, he is sitting right in front of you. – Does that surprise you?”

“Yes - no”, Billy conceded, but then furrowed his brow, “But perhaps that’s a good thing. I have a message for him…”

“And?” Silver’s brows narrowed.

Billy took a moment to make a decision: “I’d like to know what you think of it. You know him better than anyone these days.”

At these words Silver sighed deeply, and a dark premonition crept ghostly over the floorboards and up their legs into the hearts of two men.

~*~

“So how did Captain Barmy escape the boredom of his interment at the French encampment?” Eleanor asked into the silenced that had stretched over the afternoon library. Thomas gave her a baleful look. They shared a grim smile. Carefully he stretched, and walked noiselessly from the recliner to the window.

“It is a beautiful day, a walk my dear?” he bowed to her like a true gentleman, offering his arm, and she walked with him to the courtyard. That was as far as his freedom to roam extended these days, put under house arrest since they had sat foot on the island. They walked a circle within the walls. The guard by the gate gave them a close look, and she nodded towards him as she steered Thomas away from the gates and up the stairs to a little patio that let them look over the walls and onto the bay. Another guard was stationed there. It had taken a week to establish a routine of sitting on a little bench there and talking about trivialities for the guard to comfortably remain out of earshot.

As they sat there now she noticed the sharpness of Thomas’ gaze, directed at the town beyond, how he seemed to soak in every little detail in sight. From the house he had acquired a spyglass somewhere, which he now took out to survey the bay, the beach, and the streets he could see from this vantage point.

“I had a dream of this place a long time ago, did you know?” he asked without looking at her.

“James told me a little about it,” she admitted, careful to broach the subject. She had not raised it after the incident on the ship.

“Nassau was the first thing I remembered after – after I returned from the dead. Sometimes I like to think that dream of her became the wedding vow we never spoke, or perhaps the child we never had. It gave us a joint purpose, “he grimaced, lowering the spyglass to his lap, “We never realised our own foolishness. Perhaps James did at the beginning, and the longer I think on it, I believe Miranda saw it coming – but they would not force me to stop, and I was living in a fantasy where the three of us would have a glorious future here together, untouchable by the rest of the world.” He turned his head towards Eleanor suddenly, his face grim. “I gravely endangered the people I loved most in the world, and now James is in danger again with help of the plan I conceived then. It feels almost as if the world had turned my own weapon on me, my own ideas against me. And Mr. Rogers – do you care about him?”

She chose to remain silent, in part still trying to process the revelation he had so casually insinuated. It suddenly all made terrible sense, the pain of having one’s family torn apart, the rage… the struggle to fill the emptiness.  They were so terribly alike, her and Flint.

While she was lost in her thoughts Thomas spoke again: “He appears to me like a mockery of our past selves – doing what we intended, but God help me I can’t see the right in it anymore, and certainly James… “, he bit his lip, gaze earnest, “Eleanor, you must tell me something truthfully: what are Captain Flint’s intentions, what is his mission?”

The Nassau she had returned to was so different from the Nassau she left behind. How she longed to know these things with certainty again! She looked at him wearily, wishing to leave the past behind but finding no purchase in the present: “Once we agreed to do everything to bring civilisation to this place. But now? They say he fights to fight, and I cannot know if that is all that is left.”

“And is there anything in Nassau left fighting for?” he wondered, his forlorn gaze straying to the bay, where a light was glinting on the horizon.

“I – I don’t know anymore. I thought it was everything worth fighting for, but now it feels like sand slipping through my fingers.”

He nodded, but did not turn back to her. After a while she followed his gaze.

“There are ships coming”, she jumped up in anticipation, leaning on the wall. Thomas nodded to himself and stood beside her, dread gnawing at their guts for whatever news sailed towards them.  The guard on the wall rushed over, raising his hand against the sun.

“Seven ships”, he proclaimed.

She closed her eyes in pain. “The HMS Milford, 150 soldiers, 60 guns, lead naval escort, the HMS Rose, 48 guns, the Shark 40 – no, 30 guns, the Willing Mind, the Buck, … the Gloucestershire…”

“Not quite, one is in hiding”, Thomas whispered beside her, spyglass raised towards the horizon. He handed it to her.

Fife tall ships, one – no – two sloops, one almost entirely hidden behind the other vessels, and one man’o’war - her face drained of colour and she swallowed sharply - all raising the black.


	8. AN: on hiatus

dear all, I am sorry for not updating lately. I intend to finish the story, but work this year is very intense and I won't get to actually writing the story till either christmas, or even later. so do not expect anything any time soon. the story, however, is not abandoned and will be finished... eventually.


End file.
